


Eye On You

by beautreebean



Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV), The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
Genre: F/F, fred/serena past, june doesnt have a daughter, june isnt a handmaid, mentioned Fred/Serena, retelling of nick/june but its gay, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-01-30 15:48:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21430729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautreebean/pseuds/beautreebean
Summary: Told from Serena's pov
Relationships: June Osborne | Offred/Serena Joy Waterford
Comments: 1
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys :) this ship is truly cursed but if you're reading the notes you too probably ship them in too hehe.  
Rape is a warning but is only referenced in context of The Ceremony. No descriptions, I'll put whereabouts it's mentioned in the notes of the second chapter. Hope you enjoy xoxo

It was Monday, and I saw her again. Soaping up the whirlwind. She cleans the interior Thursday, ready for the final polish Friday. The Eyes use it over the weekend. She’s a Martha, I think. I’ve never seen her cook, or clean, or even bring tea to Fred. I don’t know of her name, although that’s not unusual, she probably doesn’t care to know mine. I miss not knowing their names. I miss the familiarity of it. Everything’s so simple nowadays, you get a title, it becomes your name, your job, what you’re worth.

I am a Wife. It is my duty to support my husband and follow the rules of Gilead. I must set a good example to the other Wives, Marthas, Handmaids, Econowives, and most importantly, the children. I will be honest; I don’t hate it. I know I’m better off than the majority of the women here, and I’m proud I made it this far up. If not to save my own back, I did genuinely love Fred. I wanted to follow his ideology, it was exciting, thrilling, chills-through-the-spine; but became so caught up in it, I forgot all these rules and regulations would apply to me too. I forgot I would no longer be able to read, write, know what was right for me, know what I wanted. But you must understand, I was tangled in the mess before I knew what had happened.

I met Fred in the late summer of ’87. I waited tables in some fancy restaurant in a business plaza he worked in. I was on the TV too, Serena Joy’s Hymns of the Morning. I loved it, getting dressed in a flowy white dress, singing to all these lovely little children. I only got to do it once a week though, and unsurprisingly, I wasn’t paid much. So, I waited tables, during the afternoons mostly. During the lunch period, it was loud, so not many of the higher-up men came in. it was dying down, and Fred walked it, briefcase and a personal assistant on his left side. I strode up to meet him at the entrance, I was wearing my stilettos and I was taller than the average woman too, so I met his eye level. It was strange to most men to have to look straight forward or up to a woman, especially a high-ranking man like Mr Waterford. He dismissed his assistant, I learned her name was Edith, and I lead him to a table in the far right corner, in the section with the lights dimmed and the wooden tables polished. I took his coat, pulled out a chair and handed him a menu. He smoothed over the front of my hand as he took it, his eyes meeting mine. 

I knew what he would request, I’d been a waitress long enough to hear the complaints about his food not being perfect. Most of them were quite funny, the other girls were always whining about the misdemeanors of his dinner. 

Medium-rare steak with vegetables and no gravy. A glass of cold water, don’t bring a jug over. A portion of bread and butter on the side. 

After he finished his food, he lingered longer than usual. It wasn’t strange for the men to stay and do work, write letters to their wives for later on, even have meetings here. But he didn’t do any of those. He waited until I had finished, caught me as I was pulling my hair down from the tight bun I had kept it in all day. It had kinks and odd waves and knots in it but it was less harsh and comfier. He took my wrist, made me jump a little, and asked if I would accompany him to dinner. 

It was better than my frozen curry. 

We saw a lot of each other after that. And we grew together. 

I speak of this as if I am still that same girl who wanted rescuing. I am not. 

I need an escape. An alternate reality. Somewhere where I am not the woman I have become. 

Even if that is the girl working in the restaurant. 


	2. Knitting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, it’s taken me a little longer to update this as I’d like, but it’s up and I hope u enjoy it :)   
Also I haven’t mentioned the ceremony, I’ll take it off the tags xoxo

It was unusual, seeing a woman working. Not in the way one would expect, I mean. Cooking and cleaning, yes. Vacuuming a car, not so much. A car was a man’s possession, meant to be looked at and admired, chauffeured and shown off.

She wears the colours of a Martha, except somewhat darker. Her light blonde hair is loosely tied at the crown of her head, a few strands falling out and framing her heart shaped face. Her skin is clear, completely. She hasn’t been to the Colonies then. I am yet to see her smile, but she has prominent cheekbones, which would usually mean she has a darling smile. She has slim soft pink lips, but I haven’t heard her speak so I cannot comment on her tone.

To you, it might seem weird to wonder this much about a person. To wonder what her voice sounds like, what accent she holds, what her hands look like, her physique. I find my thoughts drifting to her when I knit, when I eat dinner, when I talk to Fred. I want to know everything about this strange woman. Who she was before Gilead, if she worked on cars then? If she had children, if she had a husband or a wife, if she was educated, what her favourite food is, where she lived. You learn to not ask questions here, and so your mind wanders. If my mind doesn’t wonder, I know I’ll go mad.

Perhaps she wasn’t a Martha, perhaps she was an Eye. A female Eye was unspoken of; but I knew it occurred. In a problem household, or a high-ranking Commander’s with no children. You wouldn’t show it off to children, that women could work. If she was an Eye, she’s obviously precious or knows things or aberrantly unlike the rest of us. She’s probably a daughter of one of the other leaders. They can bend the rules if they want to.

He wouldn’t for me though.

“Rita take these into the kitchen for me.” I say as I hand her the herbs Mrs Judd so kindly grew for us. Somewhat out of season though, it was getting cooler and the Aunts were hassling us for our scarves for the children and the Handmaids. There was frost beginning to form on the old oak tree outside the house, the fallen leaves crunching under Fred’s heavy boots.

I am yet to see her with a scarf, or gloves, or even a coat. Perhaps she could use some. I don’t have any green wool though. You see, the darker dyes are rarer than the lighter ones like red and pastel yellows. Fred would get them for me on the black market, but even that was starting to fade away now. The security was increasing, some Handmaids had managed to escape last year, along with a Martha, and an Econowife with a child. Maybe she would have access. I know I use a lot of “Maybe” here. But we never know anything for certain. Nothing is ever definite, nothing ever secured. Fred could have me taken away in five minutes, no explanation needed apart from that I am a woman, and I am a threat. That’s why we have to speculate, have to wonder, have to think of absolutely every single outcome before we do anything. If she is an Eye, and I knit her a scarf, she could report me for Gender Treachery. And I would go up on the wall. And that would be it.

I’ll still knit a scarf though. Perhaps I will ask Fred for the wool, perhaps not. Maybe they will issue her with one when the temperature drops for good. I need to continue with my ones for the children first though. I still have five I need to complete. The Aunts will come for them on Wednesday.

Walking back into the hall, I pause as I go to take off my blue cloak and look out of the stained-glass window to see if she’s out there.

She’s not.

I hang my cloak up on the hook in the hallway, and put my gloves in the pockets as not to forget them when I go out later on. Picking up my yarn by the stairs, I make my way to the greenhouse. Its slightly chilly, but it’s somewhat comforting. It’s not perfect, and it’s not fine and my hands are beginning to shiver. But I can concentrate and I know Rita won’t come in, or turn the heating on or offer me anything. Anyway, I knitted a blanket last year with some left-over wool, so if I really get that cold, I can always wrap that around my legs. Its an odd blanket, not all the same colours – when I said left-over wool, I meant it – and the shape isn’t perfect, but it’s only me who uses it. I could add to it this year, after I send off the scarves and gloves. 

After we eat, I take my pot of green tea back to my greenhouse. There’s a little wooden stool that I was able to keep when we first moved to Gilead, it has little roses engraved on it. It used to have scripture on it, but they scratched it off. I can’t even read that. I think they forget that even if we aren’t allowed to read, we can still write. They haven’t taken that away from us. Sure, my handwriting has gotten worse from being here, but I still know it. They don’t get to patronise us that much. 

I wonder if she’s allowed to read. Or even if she does it in secret. She seems like the person to do that. Maybe she records herself. Eyes have access to phones, computeks. 

Probably not. She’s still a woman. 

As I finish off the last set of gloves, I notice it’s beginning to get a little dark. Time to get back, get ready for bed. 

I’ll ask Fred for the dark wool tomorrow.


	3. Nice to meet you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... they might finally meet in this chapter... :)  
no warnings for this one, it's short and sweet as I wrote it in a break from uni studies.   
hope you enjoy:)

I sit on the wooden steps, leaning against the banister, holding the steaming mug of green tea between my hands. Fred’s got some of the other Commanders over in our front room; I’m not allowed in. Our Martha is, to serve them tea and coffee, she is trusted enough not to repeat anything that is said. Coincidentally, a Martha is perhaps the worst choice for that matter. Almost all the women know the network Marthas operate within, the collecting of information. From whereabouts of lost children to which families are known for being active in the black market. Everyone knows Wives are powerful but have too much to risk if caught out. Still, I try and listen out for anything important that might concern my situation. There was a small amount of discussion last term about shuffling Wives about, introducing them to work within the Nurseries, caring jobs to improve our relationships with our children. Commander Judd said we should already have those instincts though; we were supposedly born with them.

I pondered the question of _would she be good with children? _I had seen her in the past week, and I asked Fred for the dark wool but I was still waiting on it. She seemed to have a playful nature to her, however secretive she had to be. She wasn’t cleaning the whirlwind this time, but taking the gravel from the porch down to the path and laying it out. It was usually a gardeners’ job, but our gardener had to be let go due to negligence. Apparently, our Martha found her at the bottom of the garden in the afternoon, chipping out one of the bigger rocks. When questioned about it, she just smiled and walked off. I might try and find it later.

Nothing’s really coming of the meeting. They’re discussing things that have already been discussed, playing with ideas that have already been thrown about. _I’m going to take my tea back to the greenhouse_, I think. Standing up, I go to walk down the remainder of the stairs but trip over the top of my blue dress.

“Oh no! Mrs Waterford! Are you okay?” says our other Martha, Cora. She places her tea-tray on the bookshelf and runs over. I dry out my hands quickly on my dress, my china mug lays broken on the floor. Cora starts to pat at my skirt with a cloth.

“Stop fussing and sweep up the mug. I’m fine.” I replied, it came out a little more deadpan than I intended. “Sorry. Thank you for your help.”

“That’s okay Mrs. Waterford. Would you like me to bring you another tea in the greenhouse?”

“Yes please, Cora.” We didn’t speak much, I found her to be a little annoying but sweet. I wouldn’t want to be around her much.

Walking up the stairs, I go to change my dress. I haven’t got a clean one in the normal blue, but one in a slightly greenish tint. It’ll do for today. I’m not seeing anyone for the rest of the day. I don’t expect to see Fred either. He’ll be busy in his study after the Commanders leave. My hair is slightly unkempt too, a few strands hang by my cheeks, but I tuck them behind my ears and leave it.

I leave the door ajar in the greenhouse for Cora to deliver the tea. It’s too cold to prop it completely open, and I’m not particularly good at knitting with gloves on yet. My lines are off and the Aunts complain and Wives frown on the ones which aren’t as neat. It freezes my hands in the winter, but it’s better than having everyone knowing it was you who made the rubbish ones.

“Miss Waterford?”

I was snapped out of my thoughts. A huskier voice, unlike Cora or Rita’s. And ‘Miss’. That was weird. Of course, that was still my surname before I was married. Fred preferred mine. I turned around, and it was her.

“Cora told me to bring this for you. She’s busy in the kitchen with Mr. Waterford. Are you alright?”

I realised I was staring at her. “Yes. Sorry. Just surprised to see – uh you. I don’t think we’ve properly met yet.” I could feel myself blushing as I stuttered over my words. Her voice wasn’t just husky, it was _sexy._

She smirked, and put my tea down on the side table. “June. Nice to meet you.” She held out her hand.

“Serena.” I shook it. Her hand was surprisingly soft, I had imagined it was hard like a man’s’, considering all the manual work she does. She stroked my thumb a little before I let go, it sent shivers down my spine. I smiled, feeling my cheeks redden again. She bit her lip slightly. I looked away, picking up my knitting again. “Thank you. For dropping off the tea. I must get back to my scarves.”

“My pleasure. Maybe you could knit me one?” She grinned. “See you later.” She winked, left, and I forgot how to knit for an hour, I sat replaying in my head what just happened.


End file.
